Thankful Memorial, Chattanooga
January 5, 2020
Year A, Christmas 2

Jeremiah 31:7-14; Psalm 84:1-8; Ephesians 1:3-6, 15-19a; Matthew 2:1-12

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

As we prepare to celebrate the Epiphany, the gospel of Matthew paints for us an astonishing picture in words.  And I’d like to spend a few moments this morning breaking down each part of this scene. 

First, there is a mother and her infant, with the baby’s earthly guardian standing nearby.  Theirs is a faithful Jewish family.  But the baby, of course, is Jesus, the Christ, upon whom a whole religion will be founded.  The parents are young newly-weds in provincial Bethlehem, a few miles south of prestigious Jerusalem, the seat of local government, power and wealth.  They don’t know it quite yet, but in the next few weeks, the little family will be forced to flee their home to prevent their child from being murdered in the slaughter of innocents about to be ordered by the current puppet ruler in Jerusalem. 

That is Herod, supposedly the king of the Jews, but put in place by the Roman emperor to maintain control of the region and assure that all real power and wealth ends up in the hands of the Roman overlords.  But Herod, like so many given any kind of authority, has let that power go to his head – and corrupt his heart.  So, when magi from the east come to the palace in Jerusalem telling of the birth of a new king of the Jews, Herod’s defenses go up.  This is what he fears most: a threat to his power and he will stop at nothing to keep his desperate hold on it.  Once the magi leave, he will order the murder of every male child under the age of two in Bethlehem. 

The magi are foreigners “from the East.”  In Matthew’s story they represent a number of things for the gospel’s first hearers: the Eastern empires that conquered the Israelite people in the past, the strange and unfamiliar races and religions of others, the possibility of resistance to the Roman Empire that controls the region now, and reminders of “eastern” places in Israel’s mythic history – places like Eden, where Paradise once lay, or Ur from which the great patriarch Abraham arose.  So, these magi, with their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh bring other things into the picture, too: fear of the unknown, hope for the future, nostalgia for the past, hunger for a sense of belonging once again.  And, if we consider that the magi likely came from the region that is now Iran and Iraq, we can layer in a whole other set of meanings for our world today, oddly similar in some ways to those of the original context: depictions of jihadists and racist stereotypes of Muslims, the nuclear threat, a terrifying and intensifying tension between the U.S. and Iran right now, the ongoing combative politics between the so-called “East” and “West.”   

Take a moment to let all that sink in – all of that humanity is present here in the Epiphany scene before us.  People from a vast assortment of regions, ethnicities, faiths, traditions, political affiliations, and classes are all represented in this picture around the Christ-child.  And all of human experience is here too: the magi are exhausted from their long journey and simultaneously “overwhelmed with joy.”  Mary is apprehensive about these strangers’ attention to her child, anxious about new motherhood and maybe even vaguely aware of the hardships to come, and yet perhaps, as she does in Luke’s gospel, still “pondering all these things in her heart.”  Herod is consumed by fear and violent frustration at the sense of his own impotence. 

And in the middle of them is one small child.  He is both the cause and recipient of it all: Herod’s fear and rage, the magi’s curiosity and homage, Mary’s worry and love.  And, really, over the two millennia since this scene was first painted, how little has changed.  Still today, we come to the Christ-child with the same responses.  Fear and rage because Christ confronts our greediness and our lust for power, our desire to control our own lives – and others’ – and our frustration when we realize how powerless we really are.  Curiosity and wonder and praise for the mystery of it all – that God would empty God’s self to dwell among us, divinity into humanity that humanity might be transformed into divinity.  Unease and discomfort because we sense what such a transformation might demand of us, for we must now be like God.  And, ultimately, of course, love.  All of these are the responses of our humanity to the divinity enfleshed in Christ.

And though, in the picture before us this morning, Jesus is still so small, today and always he takes all these things upon him.  This is the real miracle of Christmas: that in the person of Christ Jesus, God takes on all the messiness of our humanity and holds it for us. 

We encounter this picture of Christ on the cusp between Christmas and Epiphany.  We watch them all – Mary and Joseph, impotent king and curious magi – as they reflect back to us the messiness of our own lives, both personal and corporate.  There are the sorrows and hardships with which we each contend: the loss of a loved one, the struggle with addiction or depression, the stresses of work, the many little failures of every day.  And there are the challenges that we seem equally powerless to do anything about: the divisiveness of a mean-spirited political season ramping up, the racism and elitism woven inextricably into our most necessary systems, the escalating violence across the globe that is the sure result of the same age-old fear and greed that Herod knew so well. 

It is so much, isn’t it?  So much to fear, so much to grieve, so much to discomfort and disquiet us, so much to make us cry out in desperation.  And right there, in the midst of it all, the Christ-child shows up.  Right there in the middle of the Marys and Josephs, the Herods and magi in ourselves and in the world comes Emmanuel, God with us.   And Jesus takes our curiosity and fear and sorrow, our anxiety and our anger, our joy and our love upon himself.  He can do it because he is God, and he does it because of God’s great love for us. 

Later in Matthew’s gospel, the grown-up Jesus will have words for those who seek him out: “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest,” he will tell them.  “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” (Mt. 11:28-29). 

Here in the Christ-child, with the magi and Mary and Joseph – yes, even with Herod – here we find our rest.  On him we can lay down the heavy burdens and take up his yoke.  And though, like the magi who return to their own country, like Mary and Joseph who are forced to flee, we cannot stay forever, we nonetheless find in the child before us enough strength for the journey, enough hope for the tasks at hand, enough light to brighten even the darkest days ahead.   So, come, come with your gifts and come with your burdens and lay them here before the child, “come and worship Christ, the newborn King.”  Amen.